Simplicity
by Rianna Lauren
Summary: Because sometimes, in life, the little things matter the most. Friendship, no slash.


**Simplicity**

John walked out of his room, stretching his arms as he walked downstairs. It was 8 in the morning, and he only got himself four hours of sleep after helping with the latest murder case he and Sherlock got a few days ago. Of course, he couldn't say the same for his flatmate. Sherlock was there sitting on the sofa, fingers together under his chin, staring at nothingness, with three nicotine patches stuck on his arm. There were only two patches when John went to bed. Not much progress on the case, then.

"Sherlock," John called out. "Have you been staying up all night? I told you to get some rest."

Sherlock gave no reply - not that John had expected one, anyway. He sighed and went over to the kitchen. He thought the case would've been finished before today. He really wished Sherlock had got himself enough sleep and eaten enough food by now. But the case, the murder, just decided to be hard for even Sherlock to solve.

This was not how he wanted to start the day.

"You've been up for four days now," John continued as he pulled out a mug from the cupboard. He knew there was most likely no point in trying, but he kept telling him anyway. "You need sleep."

Sherlock almost rolled his eyes. "I don't."

"You're tired. It'll help you with the case."

"I have my nicotine patches for that."

"And you haven't eaten anything either. If you're not going to sleep at least _eat_ something."

"You know I don't eat during cases."

"You'll get yourself ill!"

"How long are you going to keep doing this, John?"

John, pouring hot water into his mug, almost wanted to sigh in exasperation. Of course he already knew, but with the case still going there was little he could do, or attempt to do, today. Having him to eat and get a decent amount of sleep was the least he could keep telling him to do, but apparently there really were no exceptions.

It was only a few minutes until Sherlock's phone rang. Sherlock was quick to pick it up - it was Lestrade on the other line. John hoped that whatever Lestrade found could get them closer to finish the case, or better yet, get them to finish the case before the end of the day.

* * *

><p>They both arrived quickly in the hotel room. Sherlock carefully examined the body with John and Lestrade standing on the other side of the room. After a while, Lestrade shot a quick, questioning glance towards John. John responded with a small frown - visible enough to Lestrade - and returned his gaze to Sherlock.<p>

"He's changing patterns," Sherlock announced as he stepped back from the body. "He's not using a gun anymore, he's using a knife, why is he changing patterns?"

"Wait, how do you even know it's the same serial killer?" Lestrade asked. "It could be a separate murder."

"No, no it's the same killer." Sherlock was starting to pace around the room. "If you look carefully at the knife angle it's only possible to be done by somebody left-handed, that matches with our killer's profile. And the slice, it's made on the lower left stomach, the exact position of the bullet wounds on the previous victims. The lock to this room, it's been picked with the same tool, so there's another match. "

Sherlock continued with his deduction, eventually leading to a prediction of the next target. He informed them where the killer might strike next with the new pattern, and soon Lestrade commanded a few Scotland Yard officers to guard the area.

"Sherlock," Lestrade called out just before they all head out the door.

"If you find anything else give me a call," Sherlock replied.

"What- Yes, of course, but I was just going to say-"

"Actually I might just know why he decided to do it with a knife. The death will be slower and more painful, whoever killed this woman has more personal issues with her compared to the previous victims. He wants to see her suffer."

"Alright, yes, but-"

"He's most likely personally involved with her, perhaps a family member or one of her ex-boyfriends... Yes, that has to be it. I'll text you when I get something."

With that, Sherlock walked out of the hotel and started to look for a cab. Lestrade huffed to himself and turned to John.

"He's being ignorant."

John shrugged. "He doesn't want to get distracted by anything. Anything at all."

"Yes. I should've known better, I guess."

"I didn't expect this case to go on for so long. I thought it would've been solved yesterday or two days ago. And now Sherlock's too occupied for anything else."

Lestrade sighed. "He couldn't care less. Not that it's unusual, but I expect something… Different."

John blinked. "Wait, you mean it's always been like this every time?"

"Yeah," Lestrade answered and glanced at Sherlock down the street, who just got himself a cab. "You probably already know, but… It'll be rather special for him if you can try to do something about it, John."

"I will," John promised with a small smile and walked out to catch up with Sherlock. He really, really wished this would be over soon.

* * *

><p>"Look, Sherlock, we've been searching that house for <em>hours<em>. There's nothing in there," Lestrade explained.

They were at Scotland Yard and Sherlock was frustrated beyond measures. "No, no it's in that house, it _has_ to be there!" he exclaimed, voice raising by the second. "That's the only possible place that her brother could've gone to after he left!"

"Well maybe it was her boyfriend who-"

"It _was her brother_, obviously he faked his own trip to outside London, and he's still in town right now!"

"That doesn't remove her boyfriend from the suspect list," Lestrade argued.

"Her boyfriend isn't the type of person – I mean, _look at him_ – such a softy like him wouldn't know how to handle a knife, and if it were him, the mark on the body wouldn't have been so straight and deep," Sherlock babbled, half-shouting. "Her brother is quite the contrary, judging from his tough exterior and everything."

"But there's still nothing in that house, Sherlock. We can't find the murder weapon."

"Then you must've missed it!"

Donovan stood at the corner with her arms crossed and Anderson rolled his eyes. "We've searched the whole place, Freak, didn't you hear?" Donovan spoke up. "_Nothing_."

"You've got it _wrong_," Anderson added.

"Well one thing that's never wrong is how incompetent and idiotic you lot are being right now," Sherlock responded flatly.

Anderson finally grunted in annoyance and Donovan muttered something under her breath before walking out the door. Sherlock could hear her but chose to ignore. John could only watch. Sherlock's got it wrong – whoever this murderer is, he is very clever. How could he be wrong? He's never got it wrong. Well, never completely, anyway. His pacing got faster, he started to mumble to himself, tons of deductions going through his head.

John buried his face on his palms. Of all the time that they have, this serial killer just insisted on being incredibly difficult today.

* * *

><p>It was a rather cloudy afternoon when Sherlock and John returned from St. Bart's to 221B, rain was threatening to fall in a few hours. Sherlock burst in and rushed through the stairs, while John tried to catch up behind him. Mrs Hudson came out just as John stopped at the bottom of the stairs, trying to catch his breath.<p>

"Dear, you look really tired," she said. "Are you two still working on that murder case?"

John rubbed his face and sighed. She was right, he was in fact absolutely tired. "Yeah, we got one more victim today and I'm starting to think this isn't going to finish anytime soon."

She spared a glance at the top of the stairs - Sherlock was already out of sight. "Don't tell me he haven't been sleeping again?"

He shook his head. "Four days."

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson mumbled. "Did you manage to get him something?"

"No, I really haven't got time. We don't know when the killer is going to strike next, Sherlock and I will have to be on high alert right now."

Mrs. Hudson tutted. "You better get upstairs then, get that murder solved. I'll bake some biscuits for you two," she said, smiling warmly.

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson," John responded and returned the smile as he rushed upstairs. When he entered, Sherlock was on the sofa with John's laptop on his lap, typing rapidly with hard, focused eyes piercing through the screen. After changing his password for the ninth time, Sherlock still managed to guess what it was.

But this time, John didn't make a fuss about it. Other than it being pointless, he knew better than to start up an argument with Sherlock today. Everything was bad as it was, there was no need to make it worse.

"Lestrade's texting _me _now, since you're not picking up his calls," John said to him as he hung his coat on the coathanger. "He said the next possible victim is still safe. The boyfriend is off the suspect list, but they still haven't found anything on her brother."

"Of course they haven't," Sherlock muttered.

"Yeah," John mumbled and sat down on his chair. He gazed at Sherlock, sighed again, and started to hate himself. He should've done something, anything - at least before Sherlock drowned too deep in the case and it got harder for John to even try.

All of the sudden, Sherlock stood up abruptly and snapped the laptop shut. The startled John looked at him hopefully.

"You've found something?" He asked.

"The new pattern," Sherlock answered with a grin, excitement dripping from his voice. He ran to the door and grabbed his coat. "He's going again tonight. Come on!"

For the first time today, John gave out a genuine smile. Finally they're getting somewhere.

* * *

><p>John shivered as a cold breeze swooshed through the night. They've been hiding for half an hour, crouching behind large crates in a dark alley. Thunder was also occasionally heard from the distance. The weather was definitely going to be very unfriendly tonight.<p>

"You're really sure that he's in there right now?" John whispered through his chattering teeth.

"Positive," Sherlock responded. "He should be out any minute now."

"…That's what you said ten minutes ago."

Suddenly, there was a loud creak from the door of the building on the left of the alley, and Sherlock immediately hushed him. A shadowy figure stepped out and started to walk down the street, right pass the alley.

Another thunder rumbled, and it was getting closer.

Sherlock took a peek and slowly got up, gesturing at John to follow him. John reached for the gun on his belt, carefully creeping up behind Sherlock to follow the murderer.

But when they got out of the alley and down to the streets, the shadowy figure disappeared. Sherlock looked around as trains of thoughts ran through his mind. John loosened his grip on the gun, searching for any signs of the murderer, until a hard, violent blow to his head knocked him down. Sherlock quickly turned, but before he could do anything, he was struck down to the pavement and received a good punch to his face.

Drop by drop, rain started to fall down the city of London.

John managed to get back up and threw himself at the criminal, tackling him off from Sherlock and to the cold, wet ground. But even under John's weight, he managed to pull out a knife from his pocket. John immediately noticed and held the knife as far away as he could. They both struggled, and the killer made gave a swift kick to John's gut, toppling him over. When Sherlock finally got to his feet, he snatched the knife away, grabbed the murderer by his collar and slammed him to the ground, knocking him unconscious.

Panting heavily, he rushed over to John and helped him up. He groaned in pain and immediately clutched his throbbing head as he sat up on the road, with the rain attacking the both of them. John looked over slightly at the unconscious criminal, then at Sherlock with a slight grin.

"John," Sherlock breathed out. "You _idiot_."

"For saving your life? You're welcome," John croaked out. Sherlock let the corner of his lips curve up.

"Let's go home."

* * *

><p>So that night, they went back to 221B, cold and drenched. After hanging his coat and drying himself with a towel, Sherlock flopped down on the sofa with a sigh. Another case finally solved.<p>

John dried himself quickly and glanced at his watch. There was still a few hours left before midnight. There was still time. So as soon as Sherlock went for a quick warm shower and to change clothes, John rushed to the kitchen, pulled out a plate, and started up the stove. He smiled to himself in satisfaction.

Sherlock walked out of his room and was greeted by a surprising, delicious scent. Frowning, he walked over to the dining table to find… dinner.

It was a plate of spaghetti bolognaise, beautifully plated and arranged on the table, and next to it was a small, folded card. Sherlock stared at them for a few moments before he decided to pick up and unfold the card.

_Happy birthday, Sherlock._

Sherlock tried to suppress his smile, but it was extremely difficult to do so. After the stressful, frustrating case they went through over the last four days, John actually remembered his birthday. And this was different. This was special. This time, he had a friend to celebrate it with.

"I'm not going to let anything ruin your birthday, you know."

His smile widened. He turned to see John.

"You remember."

"Of course I do," John laughed. "Not much of an idiot now, am I?"

Sherlock was grinning by now. "Thanks, John."

Sometimes, the little things matter the most. It was all simple, but for once, Sherlock felt more than happy.

-X-X-X-

Hello! First Sherlock fanfiction and I only had 48 hours, so not exactly my best. But I tried. Posted up in celebration of Benedict Cumberbatch's birthday (19th July) and dedicated to all my lovely Sherlockian friends. Happy birthday, Benedict! We love you.


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